at dawn a team of trench coated crows
solemn as a forensic squad
stalk the new mown grass lines for discarded body parts

ignoring black clad joggers
plugged into their separate realities
who scuff plough dusty paths in parallel to the municipal track

as they pass the shifty dog shit sitters
urgently rustling plastic bags
anxious to cue their charges to produce in a convenient location

mist clings hopefully chaotic to our aviator sky
but mother, with her wired up toothless jaw
like London trees is dry.

 

 

This is a Finalist of Cha's "Void" Poetry Contest. Read a description of the poem by Maj Ikle here. [Read Daryl Yam's commentary on this poem.] [Return to the "Void" section.]